


Wish Fulfillment

by swift_river_singing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Lie Low At Lupin's, M/M, although slightly hopeful?, as usual the boys are a mess, generally just very grim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14534616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swift_river_singing/pseuds/swift_river_singing
Summary: Sirius let out a bark of surprised laughter and Remus watching his dark eyes and the shadows of his cheekbones felt the stupid fucking thing in his chest go taut, like his lungs were too big for his body. You see, he wanted to say, there you are, Sirius, it’s all right there still, can’t you just be? But instead he looked back down and fiddled with the parchment again, and Sirius scratched at his head absently and then Remus stood up to go find whatever sad dregs of whiskey were left in the cellar.Summer 1995: Two emotionally stunted adults try to pick up the pieces.





	Wish Fulfillment

_I ain't turning my back on you._

Sonic Youth

* * *

 

On the 38th morning—five weeks and three days since Remus had been awoken from a fitful pre-moon sleep by the bright squawking light of the Phoenix patronus; five weeks and two nights since he had heard the scratching at the door and opened it, heart lurching, for a mangy-looking black dog that brushed past him and curled up by the fireplace without ever meeting his eyes; three weeks and six days since he had come home from the Muggle call center to find, at last, a man, haggard but human, staring out into the back garden; and one day and six hours since, in a fit of bitter whiskey-soaked desperation, Remus had leaned down and kissed the back of Sirius’s neck as he was fumbling with the rolling papers—Remus woke to a face full of black fur.

Sirius had put the dog on again.

For a moment Remus imagined he could sink through the mattress, heavy-boned, down through the vinyl flooring and the concrete and the wood and the probable termite nests and the earth below. He breathed in and held it in his mind, still, black, all-encompassing, and then Padfoot’s ear twitched against his calf and it was gone.

In the night Sirius had whimpered and whined and twisted his way into a sort of canine blanket-sausage, leaving Remus with just a corner of the sheets. Sirius had always been a restless sleeper. On the first night that he finally ceded to Remus’s pleas to get on the bed, Jesus Christ, there are fucking cockroaches on the floor, Remus was reminded with an uncomfortable jolt of the way he would wake in sixth year to Sirius sprawled out over him, their legs intertwining like a horrible jigsaw miracle that, at the time, left him scrambling for the shower before Sirius could wake up. This time, though, when Sirius sprawled it was as far away from Remus as possible, half-curled tight, like some sort of dying beetle who’d lost control of its legs. It was easy, at least, to slide out of bed without waking him.

In the kitchen Remus was squinting over the paper when Sirius, still canine, padded in. Remus nodded at him. Padfoot sneezed. Remus grimaced.

“Sorry about, you know, the dust and all.”

He gestured at the corner, where three trash bags were sitting waiting to be taken down, the sink piled with cereal bowls and a crusty-bottomed pot of old pasta. A flash of embarrassment twisted in his gut—he wasn’t sure if it was at the state of his flat (his tragicomic bachelor pad?) or at the thought that Sirius Black, fervent admirer of roaches, fungus, and grime of all sorts, could actually be offended by a little mess. Sirius thumped his tail as if in agreement. Remus wondered if he remembered their old flat in London, after they graduated. The hideous yellow plaid couch he and James found in a dumpster and carried, triumphant, seven blocks; the ragged posters on the walls from Muggle films, or weird underground shows they went to or at least stood by the bins outside of while doing bumps of shitty coke off Dorcas’s house keys; the scorch mark on the ceiling from that particularly vicious game of drunken Exploding Snap and that somehow resisted even Peter’s cleaning charms. The welcome mat they found at the charity shop in Manchester when they were trying to trace Death Eaters recruits—it had featured a dopey-eyed cartoon wolf, tongue lolling out, that Sirius had of course found bloody hilarious and enchanted to smack its lips loudly when someone stood in the doorway for too long. _Idiot_ , Remus reminded himself. _He probably doesn’t remember anything, because, let’s see, you left him to rot in fucking Azkaban, so_.

He stood up quickly, banging his knee on the table in the process. The dog cocked his head inquisitively, and Remus felt a flash of irritation hot in his throat.

“Another productive day for you and your fleas, I suppose,” Remus said. “Maybe today you’ll fetch some sticks.”

Harsher than he intended. Padfoot looked away, and Remus strode to the sink, turned the tap on full blast. When he had finished the washing up Sirius was behind him, human head looking fixedly at some spot on the tile floor.

“I’m not. I mean. With the dog, it feels—quieter. More real,” Sirius said gruffly.

“Yeah, well. Quiet’s in short supply for most of us, these days,” said Remus. “Wish I could put on a fur suit and hide out without wanting to tear anyone to pieces. Sounds like a real laugh.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sirius flinch. He sighed.

“I didn’t mean— I’m sorry, Pads.”

The worst part was, he really was sorry. He couldn’t even be angry at Sirius for moping around all day, for barely wanting to talk even when he looked like a human, for not washing a single bloody plate and not brushing his hair until, exasperated, Remus had to take a pair of scissors to the rat’s nest himself. Sirius was so obviously damaged, just fucking demolished, that there was nowhere for Remus to put his “but how could you have believed” and “why didn’t you just tell me” and “I thought, I thought, I thought” that have been sounding like a miserable shrieking tinnitus since the day Sirius appeared on his doorstep.

“There’s some leftover curry in the fridge,” he said instead. “Try to eat something.”

Sirius nodded, stuffing his fists in the pockets of his borrowed robe. The gesture was achingly familiar, and Remus slammed the door rather too loudly on his way out.

* * *

When he got home the sky had already gone a dull blue-grey and he could smell the burning from the front step. Wand in hand and heart in throat he threw open the door. There was a muffled clang and a round rolling thud as he pushed the door past whatever was blocking it; he didn’t stop to look because there was Sirius: slumped down on the floor by the oven, head resting on his knees, one hand scratching aimlessly at his trouser leg. Sirius and he wasn’t gone, Sirius and he was fine, Sirius, Sirius, Sirius. He let out a ragged little gasp and Sirius looked up.

“Hey, Moony. Thought I’d make us some dinner, but I cocked it up pretty thoroughly. As you can see.” He smiled humorlessly.

“Yeah,” Remus said, something more like a croak. On the floor he could see that the object blocking the door had been a cooking pot, charred black on the bottom; across the floor were scattered bits of something that looked like ash.

“Rice,” Sirius supplied. He sucked in his cheek, released it with a pop; his eyes were red-rimmed.

“You found my weed, then,” said Remus carefully. Sirius had the grace to look offended.

“I thought we were out!” At Remus’s scoff his mouth twisted. He scrubbed the hem of his ratty t-shirt across his face, but not before Remus realized that his eyes were wet. Not the pot, in that case.

“Rice can be a bit tricky,” Remus said, and for once he ignored the warnings screaming in his head and sank down, knees popping, to sit next to Sirius. Sirius started, might have drawn back slightly but Remus couldn’t be sure. Tentatively Remus reached out, squeezed his knee. Sirius didn’t move. Embarrassed, Remus dropped his hand, pretended to fidget with a scrap of parchment on the floor; Sirius shut his eyes.

“Do you want,” Remus said, and his voice cracked, “I think that maybe we should talk? About it.”

Sirius didn’t open his eyes, but after a long moment he sighed. “It’s like. Like my head is just—missing— like these holes. Everywhere. I don’t know how to do anything.”

“I mean,” said Remus. “You were always pretty shit at cooking.” Sirius let out a bark of surprised laughter and Remus watching his dark eyes and the shadows of his cheekbones felt the stupid fucking thing in his chest go taut, like his lungs were too big for his body. _You see_ , he wanted to say, _there you are, Sirius, it’s all right there still, can’t you just be_? But instead he looked back down and fiddled with the parchment again, and Sirius scratched at his head absently and then Remus stood up to go find whatever sad dregs of whiskey were left in the cellar.

* * *

Later that night the fire went out and Remus had to toss a blanket riddled with cigarette holes at Sirius because he wouldn’t stop shivering; the disc they had put on, some angry American band whose name Remus could never remember, had stopped ages ago but neither of them had found the energy to change it. The dull pleasant blur of the alcohol had faded to something morose and self-flagellatory in which Remus could do nothing but watch Sirius try to cast Lumos, over and over, long elegant fingers white-knuckled with frustration each time the little light flickered and went out. Remus had the absurd realization that this was the happiest he had been in 14 years. Which was deeply depressing, given that how objectively crap it all was, and more importantly given that Sirius himself would likely rather be literally anywhere than shut up in a grimy cottage in the middle of nowhere with his spotty magic, the tattered remains of his memory, and his werewolf ex-boyfriend who, lest he forget, abandoned him to rot in a cell in Azkaban.

“What,” said Sirius. Remus realized belatedly that he was staring.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking about—“ _Work_ , his brain supplied, _the weather, the leak in the ceiling_ — “The old flat, you know, our flat, do you remember?”

“Course I remember,” Sirius said with a snort. “That place was a fucking crackhouse, it’s not like the Dementors were going to snatch that particular memory...” He fell silent, and it might have been the flickering candlelight but Remus thought he saw his ears go red.

“Right,” he said shortly. “Not much good happened there.” He leaned over to grab the bottle from where it was sitting, near empty, by Sirius’s forearm. Sirius twitched almost imperceptibly. And as if all the imbecilic juvenile twisting rage and lust and self-defeating yearning and whiskey reached some perverted boiling point Remus leaned just a little bit further and pressed his lips against Sirius’s. So close to his own Sirius’s eyes looked wild and startled and immanently unknowable but when Remus pulled back a millimeter Sirius pressed forward, opening his mouth against his.

Sirius let out a ragged keening sort of sigh into Remus’s mouth; the edge of the table was digging into Remus’s thighs and Sirius’s lips were chapped, the scratch of his unshaven stubble and his breath rancid and velvet dark wet heat; his hair had caught on Remus’s beard but neither of them had stopped to move it and the unholy catch in Sirius’s breath Remus could die, he could just fucking die, and Moony, would you just come here, would you—.

The blood pounding dizzying in his ears, the sharp silhouette of Sirius’s shoulders, gaunt in the candlelight, his fingers rough on the buttons of Remus’s shirt and icy against his stomach, the bitter scratch of the filthy rug and the rolling rut of their hips and then Sirius, Sirius, there, tangled black hair against the white of Remus’s thighs and his mouth so soft, so infinitely soft, and then the shock of cold and slick and the gentle press, so gentle, how had he ever guarded such reserves of tenderness, and then the raw and the animal cries and full, and complete, full to bitter beautiful breaking, and Sirius’s back his laddered ribs the jagged furrows of his hips, his pockmarked dark-inked skin, unearthly beautiful his face and Remus thought perhaps he was disintegrated, it had already happened, dust, ash, his being atomized and suspended in particulate matter, Sirius, Sirius, baby, sweetheart, Sirius, I love you, I love you, he was moaning, and Sirius’s eyes wide and black and lips pressed together into a thin thin line until — the gasp, the break, the silver unspooling.

Afterward Remus was lying with the rug still tickling his back, knees and elbows aching and dearly aware of the waxing moon outside. Sirius stood, offered him a hand and he took it, and together they walked in silence into the bedroom, Remus stopping to put the CD away while Sirius waited in the doorway. In bed, though, Remus dared to turn toward Sirius, aligning their torsos, and as if by instinct Sirius reached up and ran a cool calloused finger down Remus’s jaw. Remus watched him, hardly breathing, and then carefully he rolled into his back, stretched his arm out behind Sirius’s head, and in response Sirius curled into him, boney elbows and bird-light weight against Remus’s chest. _Now,_ Remus thought, _now I have never been so happ_ y, and he fell asleep before he had time to feel anything else.

In his dream he was back at Hogwarts, in the Forest—darting and ducking between trees and shrubs, Sirius laughing up ahead somewhere. As he sprinted through a clearing there were Lily and James perched on an old tree trunk, Lily with her legs wrapped around James, head on his shoulder; she gave a jaunty wave and James winked and he grinned back and kept running and then it was trees again, the sky big and blue above and in the air the smell of plants growing and flowering and small animals poking out from burrows and nests and ahead was— was—

When he awoke he found that they had shifted in the night. Sirius had curled in on himself, taking the covers with him, but he was still decidedly human; without thinking Remus scooted forward and threw an arm over him. Sirius sighed and settled back against him, soft and easy, divine geometry. Remus was thinking of that Bowie song, from the album he’d smashed all those years ago, after everything, and so he pulled Sirius closer and closed his eyes. _Nothing’s gonna touch you in these golden years_...

When he woke up again, Sirius was looking at him from the doorway. Remus smiled, sleepy slow. Sirius raised an eyebrow.

“I was going to make some toast, assuming I don’t, like, blow the thing up,” he said.

Remus stretched and felt Sirius’s eyes follow him. “Best of luck to you, mate.” He yawned. “Want me to do eggs?”

“Please,” said Sirius, and instead of going back into the kitchen he came and sat on the edge of the bed, one foot tapping aimlessly against the floor. Remus smiled, helplessly, into his pillow.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Oh,” said Sirius, “Nothing, I guess.”

_I love you,_ Remus thought, _I love you, I love you, just tell me you love me back for once in your miserable life, say it_ —

Sirius cleared his throat. “Maybe just, like. I wonder. When they’re going to stop locking me away, like a bloody mental patient, you know?”

Right.

“I’m sure it’ll be soon enough,” Remus said. He was aiming for a breezy tone but was quite sure he hadn’t pulled it off; Sirius, though, was staring moodily at the floorboards and didn’t seem to have noticed.

“I’m so—” Sirius said, and his voice cracked but he barreled on, “Christ, Moony, I’m so fucking tired. I thought that after it there was, like, nothing worse that could ever, ever happen, you know? Like after it all the life, being able to even breathe, to hear a fucking bird, or to see, see Harry—“ and at this he choked, looked away, swung himself down and onto the floor to lean back against the foot of the bed.

Remus looked at him for a moment and then sat up, rested one hand against the headboard like he could push off.

“You thought it would feel like enough,” Remus offered.

Something cold and hard had worked its way between his ribs; he could feel it like a brutal catch each time he inhaled, and across from him the stiff line of Sirius’s bony shoulders—shaking, they were shaking, and Remus felt like ripping his skin off, rending himself raw and tattered purely open like it could ever be enough, Jesus Christ, Sirius, the fucking cord that’d always knotted them together in their goddamn gallows dance and if just this once they could have something that was theirs, theirs and theirs alone was it not their blood-soaked right to take it, and if they could not be enough for each other then how could they even be, can you just—can you just, for once, let me be enough for you?

Sirius had stilled, and as Remus watched he rolled his head to the left, then the right, the rise and fall of his back as he breathed heavy with intent.

“Sirius—“ Remus said, but when Sirius swiveled to look at him he found the words had escaped him. “I should get to work,” he said instead. Sirius nodded mutely and stayed where he was.

* * *

That night when Remus came in the kitchen was empty but for a pot bubbling cheerfully on the stove, and as the porch light was on he went outside to the back garden. Sirius was sitting on the step, and something in the fragile tilt of his head in silhouette felt like a shattering in Remus’s throat, jagged spiky bullshit helpless love. Sirius had the stump of a cigarette in his hand and was raising it to his lips when he heard the click of the door shutting behind Remus; he quickly stubbed it out into the dingy ashtray beside him and smiled sheepishly.

“Saw you managed the rice this time,” Remus said softly. Around then the raging crescendo of insects, the clangs and staticky sounds and muffled voices of the street, the smell of grass and exhaust and the neighbors’ barbecue from earlier, and Sirius’s knuckles white as he pressed his palm into the cement of the step.

“Yeah,” said Sirius. “I reckon I did.”

Remus stooped down to sit next to Sirius but misjudged the distance in the dim light and would have fallen were it not for Sirius’s cool hand steady against his hip.

“Easy there, ace,” he said, and Remus snorted.

“We’re aging bloody nicely here, aren’t we?”

Sirius furrowed his brow like he was truly pondering the question, and he knocked the heel of his boot against the stair. Moved by perhaps the usual demented death drive Remus scooted closer and placed his hand on top of Sirius’s. Sirius looked down and there was a kind of grim wonder in his eyes, but he left his hand where it was.

“We do all right,” he said, after a while, and when Remus leaned in to press his forehead against Sirius’s shoulder, Sirius twisted his neck to kiss the top of his head. They stayed there, hardly breathing, as the first dim stars cut through the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a drabble that spun quickly out of control. Thank you for reading!


End file.
